


Ever mine. Ever thine. Ever ours.

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Epistolary, Letters, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Grantaire, Pining Enjolras, Secret Admirer, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:53:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Dear R,</em><br/><em>Ridiculous as it may sound, I cannot stop thinking about you. Simple and plain as that and confusing </em><strike>as fuck</strike>. <em>Sorry about the language. This is just so new to me. I sincerely hope there will be no need for a second letter. I just wanted to let you know that you make me feel... things. And I hate you for that.</em><br/><em>Yours.</em></p><p>Grantaire has a secret admirer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever mine. Ever thine. Ever ours.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from one of Ludwig Van Beethoven to 'The Immortal Beloved'.  
> Enjolras is terribly OOC, this is stupid, plotless and badly written: I am perfectly aware of the fact but I just got this ridiculous rom-com mood again, so here it goes.  
> Feedback and opinions are always welcome.

_Dear R,_

_God, I suck at writing… letters. I know I do. It had always sounded like such a ridiculous idea to my ears. I hear people saying that it helps and I’m positively ashamed for the result but you will never get to know so I guess that’s ok, I don’t care anymore, all I want is to feel freer than I do now._

_I wish I could somehow control myself and stop all this horrible chaos in my head but I know I can’t help it and I know that nobody can’t help_ me. _I can’t possibly talk to anyone about this, no one can ever know and most of all you. It took me so long to admit it even to myself and I hate myself for it, I hate you and me and everything because such things never happened to me but with you it’s different. I know there is nothing I can do about it but if I don’t tell anyone, if I don’t get this out of my chest it is going to become more and more unbearable and fuck, R, I can’t deal with it. I wish I could but it’s impossible, I’m a disgusting coward and I will forever keep my anonymity. You can never know but at the same time you_ must _because there is that constant feeling that my insides will explode if you don’t, and it won’t fuckin’ go away._

_Well, here you go. Ridiculous as it may sound, I cannot stop thinking about you. Simple and plain as that and confusing ~~as fuck~~. Sorry about the language. It’s just that the very thought of you occupies my head when it shouldn’t, when there are so many other things to care about and I know we’ll never be together because it simply is not written to be. We’re so different, you’re not free but you’re alive, you don’t care, you’re so distant and dark and mysterious and I’m… I’m me. This can’t be and I know it’ll never be, but you need to know so that my heart will finally stay calm._

_I sincerely hope there will be no need for a second letter. I just wanted to let you know that you make me feel things. And I hate you for that._

_Yours._

Grantaire is standing in the middle of his messy living room completely dumbstruck, his jaw hanging slack and his fingers curled around this horrible, distasteful prank. It’s a simple lined page from a notebook, a neat handwriting he has never seen in the past in the most neutral, typical blue pen. The letter speaks of hate but he’s never hated anyone else more than right now, when he wants to kick Courfeyrac straight on the balls and see him squirm and scream and bend in two, because this wasn’t funny. This wasn’t fuckin’ funny at all. It’s the most annoying, disgusting and stupid shit anyone has ever done to him.

He eyes Courfeyrac who is cheerfully chatting with Bossuet in the corner of the backroom of the Musain. The meeting has not started yet and not all of them have arrived. Grantaire walks towards the two of them and grits his teeth before gripping a startled Courfeyrac’s arm and pulling him away. “This dickhead’s mine now,” he growls as he drags him to the quiet corner of the room, and he hears Bossuet shouting “Remember to be safe, kids!”

Once he makes sure that nobody can hear them, he pins Courfeyrac against the wall, receiving a half surprised-half playful wolf-whistle and, grabbing his collar with one hand, he shoves the wrinkled piece of paper on his face with the other. “Care to explain what the fuck is that?” he hisses.

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, as if he’s worried for the state of Grantaire’s mental health. “Hey, easy tiger! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Grantaire cradles the paper in front of his face again. “ _This_ is wrong with me. I didn’t find it fuckin’ _funny_!”

Courfeyrac manages to free one hand from Grantaire’s deadly grip, and takes the paper in order to inspect it. Much to Grantaire’s fury, he leaves a small chuckle. “Well, it seems to me,” he starts in a slow voice as if he’s explaining the patently obvious to a five year old child, “that you have a secret admirer!”

Grantaire snorts angrily. “Yes, very funny, I think I’m gonna _piss_ myself! You’re a dick, do you know that?”

Courfeyrac shrugs his shoulders. “So they tell me, but I don’t see what this has to do with your secret admirer!”

Grantaire throws his arms in the air exasperatedly. “ _You_ are the secret fuckin’ admirer!”

Silence falls for a while, and then Courfeyrac slowly articulates the words: “R. I did not write that letter.” He sounds serious, but then again, Courfeyrac is the best fuckin’ actor.

“Don’t think you can fool me, Courf. Looking for a good laugh, weren’t you? Well, guess what, _I_ didn’t laugh. I mean, you made effort to make it as ridiculous as possible but my sense of humor does not reach such depths.”

Courfeyrac calmly places his hands on Grantaire’s arms. “I. Did not. Write. That letter.”

“Then who did?”

“How in the name of fuck do you expect me to know?” laughs Courfeyrac incredulously, pulling a small piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans and handing it to Grantaire. “Here, this is my handwriting.”

_Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? Courfeyrac 0690 661 832_

Grantaire forgets the letter for a while as he blankly stares at the paper. “Do you really carry these in your pocket?”

Courfeyrac shrugs his shoulders. “For emergency cases. In case I’m too drunk to write my phone number.”

If Grantaire wasn’t that upset he would laugh until the morning, but he has to admit that this handwriting is completely different to Courfeyrac’s. The tale of the f’s is different and the a’s are far less circular… Not to mention the s’s which are sharp as if someone has been fighting with them…

Then again, handwritings can be changed.

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac’s voice is still calm. “I did not write that letter. I don’t know if it’s a prank or an actual love letter, but whoever wrote it is an amateur in both fields, and the world knows I’m not.” His green eyes are genuine and Grantaire knows he can do nothing but believe him.

“Right, I'm sorry," murmurs Grantaire. "Then who…” his mind is travelling to everyone who wants to laugh at him, or play a prank, or even give him false hopes, people from classes or from the group or…

They almost don’t notice Enjolras, beautiful and fierce as always, standing behind them. “May we proceed to the meeting, please,” he says impatiently, his lips pressed to a thin line, “whenever you’re ready, _of course._ ”

_Dear R,_

_I hope you’ll forgive me both for the presence of a second letter and for the shortness of it, as it’s a very busy day for me. I know for sure that I shall never be able to forgive myself for continuing this nonsense, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to write to you just to tell you how beautiful you were today, and how I wish you knew that, because I know for a fact that you don’t. You’re beautiful, Grantaire. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different._

_Yours._

It’s the same handwriting, on an identical notebook page written with the same ink, handed to him by his landlady between his normal post, bills and ad fliers, in the same plain white envelopes with no fuckin’ stamps on it. He can’t believe that this joke goes on, it’s absolutely impossible.

The second suspect definitely is Bossuet. Grantaire doesn’t know how he didn’t realize from the start. Hell, the two of them –sometimes together with Joly- played the best jokes on the others, driving Enjolras insane! Not to mention how Bossuet has this genuine thing of trying to make people feel better. No wonders he’d write those two letters, and Grantaire should be clever enough to notice from the beginning.

They sit next to each other at the meeting and they share a beer. Or three. At some points he leans closer and whispers. “I got your letters. They were the five more ridiculous moment of my life.”

Bossuet turns to stare at him, completely baffled. “Man, are you high?” he whispers. Grantaire simply hands him the letter and Bossuet unwraps it, letting a small whistle. “Shit that handwriting is _neat_! I wish I could write like that! Joly’s the doctor in this relationship yet I’m the one who fits in the stereotype!”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right, you’re _so_ funny. Next thing you’ll tell me this isn’t your handwriting!”

Bossuet stares at him, puzzled. “ _Of course_ it isn’t my handwriting! The last time Musichetta tried to read my super market list it almost drove her on the verge of tears!”

“Who did you make write it then?”

Bossuet raises and eyebrow before patting Grantaire’s shoulder friendly. “Dude, I don’t know what you’ve been drinking but I feel obliged to beg you for some!”

Enjolras’ shout brings them back to reality. “Will you two ever SHUT UP so that we can continue?”

It’s not Bossuet.

_Dear R,_

_I must ask you to not try to find who I am. Please, it will do no good to either of us and I promise I will never let you know. Don’t ask your friends because they’re going to tell you the truth: it’s none of them. No one is making fun of you. Every single word is spoken genuinely from the soul, and believe me the very fact that I use such pretentiously poetic and nonsensical language to express my feelings is embarrassing me enough already._

_You are a wonderful artist, R. I just needed you to know. It seems to me that you don’t want to believe in your art yet it’s beautiful. I feel hooked in every little piece I have seen. I love watching you sketch, I love the way you frown slightly in concentration, the way you slightly bite your lower lip, so devoted to something else than alcohol, absolutely captivating… I wish I’d get to see what lies in those pages, I wish I could lay my hand upon that sketchbook yet I never would even if you forgot it back, I’d never dare to invade in your privacy. It must be a beautiful world in those pages, an utopia people are fighting for, a free world, without prejudices and darkness. I know you’re being truer to yourself in those pages than in your endless, sarcastic rambling, R. I know that even if you don’t._

_Thank you for gracing us with our talent, just for a day. I wonder what other talents you possess._

_You are capable of the world, R. Do not ever forget that._

_Yours._

A third letter can do nothing but make things worse. It can either be mockery addressed straight to his art, or a genuine effort to make him feel good about it. He is pessimistic enough to settle for the first choice, but something in the simple, honest language of the letter makes him dare to believe it might be the second. Nevertheless, no matter how good the intentions may be, the overzealous effort to make him feel proud of himself already manages to give the letter some feeling of mockery. He sincerely wishes that whoever writes those letters will soon stop because this is getting insufferably frustrating.

He finds Feuilly before the meeting starts. He trusts his friend to be straightforward enough. He knows it’s him. Someone is trying to make him feel better and Feuilly appreciates his pathetic excuses of paintings and sketches because he’s an artist himself, a much better than him at that, and he really believes in encouraging people with artistic tendencies even though their work might be ridiculous.

Feuilly stares at the letter with narrowed eyes. “I’m sorry, Grantaire,” he shakes his ginger head, “I did not write that letter though I definitely agree about your talent.” He takes out a piece of paper and scribbles his name on it. He’s right. Feuilly’s handwriting is much more artistic and calligraphic than this simple, neat handwriting.

Enjolras begins the meeting without even giving him his usual disapproving glances, and Grantaire’s heart clenches tightly in his chest.

He drinks.

_Dear R,_

_I hate seeing you like that, don’t you see? I hate seeing you like you were today. Dark, quiet, snarky, sad. Who makes you like that, R? What makes you like that? Why? Why do you face away from the world, away from your friends, why do you not let them make it better for you? They care, R._ I _care for you, more than you’ll ever know. Please, don’t think that people don’t care for you, not for a moment. They all do, and they’re here. Don’t shut them out, please._

_P.S. I love your tattoos. I find them beautiful._

_Yours._

Of course.

Of fuckin’ _course._

How did it not occur to him earlier?

It’s Éponine. Who else could it be but his best friend? They’ve been together through everything, good and bad –mostly bad-, they’ve done everything to make the other feel better. He’s held her in his arms while she cried over Pontmercy, she held his hair back every time he threw his guts up in the toilet, she helped him shower and they got drunk together, then he rambled endlessly about Enjolras and the fact that he’s too useless for him, that Enjolras is perfect in every possible way and his heart breaks again and again and the thought that he’ll _never_ love him like he does, then she stroked his hair while trying to convince him he’s not useless, they fell asleep together after smoking packets of cigarettes and drinking bottles full of alcohol. They've been intimate together, they've cared for each other more than two siblings would. Of course it’s Éponine. She has seen all his tattoos, not only the tattoo sleeves some of their friends have when he wears short sleeves, but also the Hallelujah lyrics on his lower back and the Hey Jude ones on his hip and the R on his ankle and the tiny tattoo of Icarus on his shoulder blade. Éponine _knows._ And this is her desperate attempt to make him feel better after another fight with Enjolras about him mocking his noble cause.

Éponine is in a pair of boxer shorts and a baggy t-shirt when she opens the door and lets him in. “You woke me up, fucker,” she groans but there’s unmistakable tenderness in her voice. She curls up on the stained, patched couch and he joins her. He doesn’t lose any time. It’s Éponine after all. “You wrote that, didn’t you?”

Éponine gives a look at the letter with a raised eyebrow. “No dummy, of course not. Why the hell would I ever write so pretentiously?” He sighs, ready to beg her to stop teasing him. “But whoever did is smitten as fuck with you!” she lightly punches his shoulder. “Hey, I’m jealous!”

“Really Ép, I appreciate the effort but you don’t have to pretend…”

Éponine stares blankly at him. “Seriously?”

“I should be asking that.”

“Do you seriously believe I could make my handwriting resemble anything close to this?”

Grantaire stares at his best friend, the dark circles under her eyes, her chapped lips and the messy bun on the top of her head. He remembers her handwriting at their Pontmercy voodoo drawings.

It’s not Éponine.

_Alack, in me what strange effect_  
 _Would they work in mild aspect?_  
 _Whiles you chid me, I did love;_  
 _How then might your prayers move?_  
 _He that brings this love to thee,_  
 _Little knows this love in me:_  
 _And by him seal up thy mind;_  
 _Whether that thy youth and kind_  
 _Will the faithful offer take_  
 _Of me, and all that that I can make;_  
 _Or else by him my love deny,_  
 _And then I'll study how to die._

Shakespeare.

Right.

Grantaire thinks he might have missed something. Especially when this letter arrives with a red carnation.

He places the flower in a glass of water by his bedside and sits on the edge, staring at it. It’s beautiful and he feels touched, but feels immensely stupid as well. How could he have not noticed? They’ve been such good friends for all this time, each other’s shore when one of them dealt with the darkness of melancholia, always there for each other. How had he not found out from the first minute? Who else could it be but Jehan, in an attempt to boost up his self-esteem? Caring, gentle, loving Jehan?

Jehan gives him a small smile as he traces his knuckles softly over the red petals of the flower. “Red carnations stand for admiration and heartache. Someone can’t stop thinking about you. And,” he holds up a hand, turning to face Grantaire. “That’s not me. I mean, I love you with all my heart, Grantaire, but you know what I mean.” Their hands meet and Jehan squeezes his own.

“You can’t possibly believe there’s someone out there sending those letters to me non-ironically,” croaks Grantaire.

Jehan smiles enigmatically.

  _Dear R,_

_I knwo that I’ll probbly deeply regrett writimng this later since I have drunk a glasss or two and I nevehr drink but u have changed my life in jst one buRst of light._

_Etrenally urs._

A sigh.

“Listen, Marius. You shouldn’t drink too much.”

The boy raises his eyes in a puzzled expression. “Huh?”

“Alcohol. Alcohol is bad for you.”

“Are you the one to talk?”

Another sigh. “Don’t raise that eyebrow on me, darling.” The letter. “Cosette won’t be very happy if she finds out that you’ve been sending these around your friends.”

A glance.

Then another.

A very, _very_ puzzled glance.

“Grantaire, are you feeling quite well? Because you know, you shouldn’t drink too much.”

“…”

“…”

“Right.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Will you two finally stop discussing Pontmercy’s heated love life and focus on the upcoming PROTEST?”

_Dear R,_

_Oh God, I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I actually_ sent _this one. Please accept the sincerest of my apologies, I swear to everything I most fondly believe in that it was none of my intentions to write something so utterly stupid and I knew from the very beginning that accepting a drink and then another was a horrible idea, but I’d thought it’d make me feel better._

_I heard you playing the piano yesterday. I never had in the past. It was beautiful, R. The way you tilted your head on the side, the way your fingers moved upon the keys so gracefully, the stunning melody you produced… I can never stop thinking about it. Thank you for the privilege of granting me with your music._

_Yours._

Grantaire never plays the piano while his friends are present. He stayed at the Musain a little longer the previous night and practiced a bit but the room was seemingly empty. The only person who could have heard him was Musichetta.

She eyes the letter suspiciously, her thick, dark lips pressed together in an attempt to hold back a smile. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with this one, baby,” she hums before ruffling his hair.

“You didn’t see anyone staying for longer yesterday evening?”

She thinks about it, twisting a lock of chocolate hair around her finger. “No, darling,” she says eventually. “I’m afraid I didn’t. Maybe you just have to look a little closer.”

Grantaire is feeling unbearably confused and is lost in his thoughts when Enjolras makes his way towards them. His heart picks up in his chest like every time the beautiful man shortens the distance between them so that he can notice the small freckles on his nose and his thick, fair eyelashes, or focus on those shiny red lips, but Enjolras completely ignores his presence and proceeds in asking Musichetta something about the Musain.

Sometimes it hurts more than Grantaire would bear to admit.

_Dear R,_

_It’s killing me and it’s killing me slowly because there is nothing I can do about it. You are sad, I know you are and I don’t know whose fault it is but I hate anyone who can make you look like that. Not that you don’t look beautiful even when you’re sad. I know it sounds strange but you always look beautiful. This dark melancholy seems to suit you, the dark circles beneath your eyes and the cigarette between your chapped lips are haunting my dreams, I can’t stop thinking about you, about ways to make you feel better, to show you what you mean to us, to_ me, _yet I suck at that sort of thing._

 _But even if you look beautiful when you’re sad I can’t stand it, R. You need to be smiling. You look even more beautiful when you smile, it lights up your face and you have those adorable little dimples even though you are thin as hell but sometimes they are hidden by your facial hair because you clearly have better things to do in your spare time than shave, but I don’t mind even then because a simple smile of yours, even when not addressed at me –they’re never addressed at me- can make_ me _smile for the rest of the day, alone and thinking of you._

_I’m sorry if I sound creepy. Please believe me, this is not a joke. I’m aching._

_Please smile._

_Yours._

This time, it comes accompanied with a cupcake. Chocolate, with soft creamy icing and red spots of marmalade. It’s delicious, and Grantaire knows from the moment he tastes it who’s made it.

Cosette simply smiles. “Not me,” she mutters, wrapping her fingers around Grantaire’s own. "But you really need to believe this. There’s someone out there, caring for you, yearning to see you smile even if you don’t understand it, even if they hide it very well."

“Do you know anything?” he asks hoarsely.

Cosette shrugs her shoulders. “It’s right in front your eyes, R. Please don’t ask me to help you for something you need to discover on your own.”

It’s the first time that Grantaire actually dares to consider that _maybe,_ just maybe there _is_ a secret admirer after all, someone who isn’t making fun of him or desperately trying to make him feel better when he looks fucked up, someone who actually cares, someone who might even _like_ him, just a bit.         

It’s not the first time he realizes how much it hurts that Enjolras will never feel that way for him. It’s not the first time yet it hurts even more every time he thinks of it, and now with a possible secret admirer, the dream of every being able to touch Enjolras, to feel him smile against his lips and stand next to him grows more and more distant.

He doesn’t know if he’s ready to move on. He doesn’t know whether he’s ready to invest his being to that ‘admirer’, whether he’s willing to try to forget about Enjolras, if it will actually help him or devastate him even more. Then he remembers that he doesn’t even know the admirer’s name, that he doesn’t even have a way to reply to him, to pose him questions, to accept or to decline. He can’t deal with it right now.

So he drinks.

He drinks a lot.

He doesn’t remember how it starts, when it happens. He mocks, he laughs, he’s snarky and sarcastic and Enjolras is staring at him with bewilderment. “ _What the hell is wrong with you?”_ They fight. Harsh words are exchanged. He loves him. Oh God, how he _loves_ him. Enjolras looks furious. Fierce, flushed a fist clenched, lips pressed to a thin line.

He crosses the line.

He hates him.

The cupcake is still waiting by his bedside when Bahorel drags him home. He isn’t hungry. The horrible aftertaste of vomit is still lingering in his mouth.

The carnation in the glass has withered.

_Dear R,_

_I hate you._

_I hate you, because you are a terrible man, capable of being wonderful. This is all so fuckin’ frustrating for me, you know. You laugh at each and every one of our faces, I hate you yet you can be wonderful, I know you can, and I hate you for forgetting this. Why are you trying to prove to yourself that you are like that, when you know what you are capable of? Why do you not care, why do you forget about everyone who cares and believes, why do you ridicule us? Me?_

_Dear R._

_I want to punch the fuck out of you._

_But I think I love you._

_Yours._

“Listen, if you want to punch the fuck out of me you can just do it. We take boxing classes together every Tuesday. If this is not the best fuckin’ opportunity to be understandably aggressive towards me then I don’t know what the fuck would be.”

Bahorel stands there, gaping at him. “Are you high? Feverish?” Grantaire doesn’t reply so Bahorel just throws his hands up in exasperation. “I mean, of _course_ I want to punch the fuck out of you because you are a massive _dick_ sometimes –and no, that’s not a compliment-, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you!” He pulls him in a murderous bear hug and rubs his head with his knuckles. Grantaire struggles for some air.

“You _love_ me?”

Bahorel rolls his eyes. “Of course I do, butthead! We’ve been friends since eighth grade!”

“Listen… You don’t have romantic feelings for me, right?”

Bahorel’s jaw hangs slack. “Oh man…”

“Yes. Oh man.”

“This is fucked up.”

“I know.”

“Listen R, I’m sure you are a _very_ good shag, but this is a mental image I’d rather not be having right now.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“R?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure you’re alright? You really look like you have a fever.”

_Dear R,_

_I heard that you’re sick. Thankfully just a cold, they say. I’m worried nevertheless. Very worried. These things can get nasty if you don’t take care of them. I wish I could be where you are, make sure you’re ok. I missed you today. Very much. I missed your constant dickery, your snarky comments and your horrible sarcastic grin. Please get well soon. Drink plenty of fluids and try to rest. Come back soon._

_Yours faithfully._

“Oh _here_ you are! Still looking a bit peaky but you don’t feel warm… Did you take your medicine? ‘Chetta’s made you some soup, may I check your throat?”

“Joly, I’m fine. No need to worry.”

“Right. I’m sorry, but you know how nasty these colds can get. I just heard this morning, that’s why I didn’t call you. I wasn’t present at the meeting yesterday because I’d visited my grandma.”

“It’s okay… wait. You said you learnt this morning?”

Joly looks confused. “Um, yeah. If there is anything I can do for you…”

“Thank you Joly. I got what I wanted.”

No Joly then.

This evening they fight again.

_Dear R,_

_You were right last night. I can’t believe I’m saying that, but you were right. I guess I hate to admit it, but your arguments were solid and we might need to reconsider the issue. You are clever, R. You are positively smart, even your drunken ramblings are brilliantly formed. We might disagree but I respect you and admire you with all my being._

_Yours._

He knows it is highly unlikely but Combeferre is the last one left and he is the most likely to respect his arguments and opinions even if they happen to completely disagree most of the time.

Combeferre is always honest and straightforward. He doesn’t fuss over an issue for long. He says what he has to say in the very words he wants to say it. He deals with his issues diplomatically, that’s true, but he never lies or hides anything. Grantaire immediately decides that the only way he can talk to Combeferre is to actually be straightforward about it.

“It’s not you who has been leaving those letters to my landlady, is it?”

Combeferre gives him a gentle look behind his glasses. “No, Grantaire. It hasn’t been me.”

There is a pregnant silence and Grantaire can feel a lump settling on his throat. “Do you know anything about this at all?”

Combeferre rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, looking as if he’s unsure whether he should talk or not. “I know that you should have faith in this, whatever it might be,” he smiles eventually.

Combeferre has been hardly helpful at all.

_Dear R,_

_I know I cannot just ask you not to drink, I know these things don’t work like that although I can’t claim I know_ how _exactly they work. I know you’ll hate it if I mention the word_ potential _but I really believe you’re a brilliant person. I wish it would be you who’d talk to me and not the alcohol, because every moment your lips move addressing me it’s an honor._

_Yours._

_Dear R,_

_Please, believe. Believe in yourself. You are important. Never forget that._

_Yours._

He has given up in trying to find out who the secret admirer is. He has to admit he doesn’t really care anymore. It might still be one of his friends, or maybe all of them, trying to make him smile, but to hell with it because it _works!_ It fuckin’ works and he’s smiling, caressing the dried carnation on the side of his bed and clutching the letters in his chest like a cliché Victorian heroine but honestly, he doesn’t give a fuck anymore. Someone cares. And he smiles.

He smells them. It’s pathetic but he doesn’t care about that either. He inhales deeply against the white envelopes when he’s alone, shutting his eyes and subconsciously upturning the corners of his lips to a serene smile. It smells comfortingly, it’s almost intoxicating. Coffee and fresh ink and some sort of morning freshness, it reminds Grantaire or oranges and sunlight on Parisian cobblestones.

He loves Enjolras with all his being. He knows he’ll never stop. Somehow it feels his sole distance is to venerate and worship him, yet for once he feels alive, he feels _well._

More and more letters come. Enjolras is always cold and distant. It hurts.

But Grantaire is not alone.

The next letter arrives in a stuffed envelope. Inside he finds a book. It’s _The Moveable Feast._

_Dear R,_

_This is not normally the genre of books I prefer and I cannot say that Ernest Hemingway is among my favorite authors. This particular book, however happens to captivate me every time I read it. I want you to keep it._

_Sometimes I imagine just the two of us walking in Paris streets together, sun shining bright above our heads, your raw, callused hand from your art wrapped around mine. I see us in a small café in Rue St. Michel, then walking around the Notre Dame, ending up at the Luxembourg gardens, sitting on the grass with books on our laps, eating an ice cream, carefree and happy just for a few minutes, before the world keeps turning together with us. Sometimes I dream of freezing the time with us on the hill of Montmartre, wandering between the street artists. I know that this is probably ridiculous and I suck at writing emotions, but sometimes… sometimes I see us on the Pont des Artes, just above the Seine, sometimes I dream of your lips on mine and I wonder whose lips are touching your own…_

_Forever yours._

His heart is pounding madly in his chest as he rereads the letter, his fingers brushing absent-mindedly over the cover of the old book. When he is able to breathe again, he doesn’t know if he should blame it on the beauty of those innocent lines, looking like they’ve been written by a romantic teenager, or at the distant thought of strolling with _Enjolras_ down the streets of Paris, of dreams of his hand around his own and of his red lips brushing softly against his skin.

It still hurts. It will never stop, Grantaire knows that very well. He’ll never be able to stop staring at Enjolras with adoration behind his bottle, from the table in the corner. He’ll never stop wondering how it’d feel to card his fingers through those golden locks, and hold him in his arms forever. He knows he can’t, so for once Grantaire decides to survive.

Enjolras grows colder and colder. Grantaire doesn’t know what he’s done to him. Probably it’s because he doesn’t talk much during the meetings anymore, he doesn’t really drink, he doesn’t do him the favor to start a fight. It hurts but now everything is easier. He holds the letters dear to his heart and places each and every one of them on his bedside, in the place where a packet of cigarettes once lay.

More letters arrive, together with smiles from his landlady. Grantaire starts looking happier every day. His friends look proud.

It’s alright. He’s alright.

_Dear R,_

_Whatever happens between us, you need to know that I love, I love every little thing about you. The way you clear your throat before you’re about to make a joke, those stray wild dark locks that fall dangerously over your eyes, those blue eyes able to stop the time in the room, the repeated patters in the way you tap your fingers on the table. And most of all your laughter, the way you throw your head back when you laugh, the clear, warm sound, the way your faces lights up._

_You’re looking better and better everyday, R. I don’t know who’s responsible for it and I can’t say I don’t loathe them for being so dear to you, but at the same time I honestly don’t know how to thank them because you need to laugh, R. I need to see you laugh, because even if it hurts it’s the most beautiful thing in the world._

_I need to stop writing to you, for my own sake, even though if I knew that these letters made you feel loved in any way, trust me, I’d continue forever not caring about the pain you cause me._

_Love._

No _yours,_ eternally or sincerely or forever. No yours.

_Love._

And Grantaire is hyperventilating.

They can’t stop now. Whoever is sending those letters can’t possibly stop now, not when Grantaire is getting better all the time, not when he’s finally finding himself.

Grantaire is panicking. The air is not enough in the room. His chest feels tight. It’s like he’s suffocating.

_I need to stop writing to you._

No, please, you can’t.

He needs those letters.

_Dear R,_

_You can never know who I am. I regret all of this. I’ve been weak. I hate myself. This needs to stop. Forgive me._

_Know that someone out there really loved you. He doesn’t know anymore._

_Yours._

The handwriting is shaky, so are his own hands as he slowly wraps the letter and leaves it on his bedside with his stomach clenched tightly in a knot. He swallows and lies back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He soon falls asleep, more alone than ever.

He is curled on a chair at the backroom of the Musain the next day, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels. Jehan was here before but he managed to convince him he was alright. He needed some time alone.

His heart almost stops when Enjolras enters the room, all of a sudden, notes and pamphlets under his armpit. He looks gorgeous as always, only something seems to be troubling him. His blond locks are tousled and dark circles have appeared under his eyes. He sees Grantaire and nods curtly and this is enough to drive all of the alcohol in Grantaire’s system straight to his head and cause the blood to boil in his veins.

“STOP IGNORING ME!” he shouts, throwing himself up. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you? I know I’m a fuckin’ mess but I’m a mess with _feelings,_ not that you know anything about those. They can get hurt, you know, and ignoring me is downright RUDE.”

Silence falls after that. Enjolras freezes at his place, his expression blank and his cheeks slightly flushed. “I’m not ignoring you,” he says in a considerably calm voice before his features frown in annoyance. “However I cannot understand what the fuck is wrong with _you._ Something really horrible happened to you, I suppose. You ran out of beer?”

Grantaire snorts. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you. Do you know what? Even if I _tell_ you what is wrong with me you won’t even understand the words I’m going to use and even if you do you’ll never find a fuck to give, so guess what?” he throws his hands in the air, in a wide gesture. “I’ll _tell you.”_ He’s drunk, he knows he is, but he doesn’t care. He’s already lost everything. There’s nothing else to lose. “I’M IN LOVE,” he shouts, laughing hysterically. “IN _LOVE,_ ENJOLRAS. Do you know what love is?”

The volume of Enjolras’ voice is still low but if Grantaire hadn’t had too much to drink he’d notice a faint tremor, as the man walks to a table to fix his notes. “Oh _are you_?” he says, obviously intending to sound much more sarcastic than he eventually does. “And what exactly am I supposed to do about that?”

Grantaire takes another step forward, sarcasm now absent from his breaking voice. “When you think someone loves you,” he mutters, “and then they no longer do… Do you know how that is?”

Enjolras remains silent for a minute that feels like a century, and Grantaire can feel his pulse throbbing dully in his meninges. “Horrible,” Enjolras breathes eventually, his voice unexpectedly softened. “It is horrible.” Enjolras lowers his eyes and starts twisting a thread from his shirt around his finger. “So… that… _person_ with whom you were going out… did you break up?”

Grantaire cackles morbidly. “ _Going out_? You clearly don’t understand how pathetic I am. Apparently much more than you already suppose. I never went out with any guy, my fearless leader. I fell in love with _letters._ With fuckin’ anonymous LETTERS! I fell in love with a _joke_!”

Silence falls and Enjolras looks as if he’s been slapped in his pretty face. “It wasn’t a joke,” he says eventually and his voice comes out hoarse, almost strangled.

Grantaire is ready to chuckle, to open his mouth and throw a piercing reply, when he freezes in his position, suddenly feeling dizzy. “What did you say?”

“I said that it wasn’t a joke,” replies Enjolras in a silent yet sharp voice.

“How… how would you know about that?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply. He simply bends over the wooden table and takes a blue, typical pen out of the pocket of his jeans. Wrapping his fingers around it, and tearing a piece of paper from a notebook, he scribbles two words on it. Grantaire leans over his shoulder and looks. Truth punches him straight in the guts. _I’m sorry,_ he reads, in the same, unmistakable handwriting. Enjolras smells of coffee and fresh ink and sun and oranges. He thinks his legs will deceive him.

“You?” he croaks.

“I’m sorry,” repeats Enjolras with embarrassment, a violent blush spreading all the way down his neck. “I never meant to make you fall in love with a phantom.”

“You’re not a phantom,” breathes Grantaire, unable to believe his ears. “You’re real.”

“You fell in love with an illusion,” mutters Enjolras, turning away harshly.

“Did you mean it… what you wrote?”

“Every single word.”

Grantaire’s heart is hammering violently in his chest. “I can’t believe…”

 Enjolras turns around quickly. “This wasn’t what I intended,” he hisses. “Don’t you see? I’ve been a childish, ridiculous fool. I wanted you to fall in love with _me_.”

He looks ready to say more, but Grantaire, unable to stop himself, shuts him with a kiss, pressing his lips against his own and gripping on his arms. Enjolras lets a small whimper against the embrace, but soon throws his arms around Grantaire and leans in to the kiss, moving his mouth adoringly.

“I’ve _always_ been in love with you,” murmurs Grantaire against his lips when they break the kiss. “Tell me this is not a dream.”

“This is not a dream,” Enjolras smiles faintly, his eyes shut as their foreheads come to rest together. “I love you.”

*

_Dear E,_

_I find myself in the most serious position to plead you to visit the market before returning to our love nest in order to share the most romantic of dinners with me (bring takeaway, I forgot to cook). Allow me to confess that candles, classical music and other charming clichés will not be absent from our humble meal and I promise to let you pick the movie –and not to laugh at you if you shed a single tear again at the ending of_ V for Vendetta.

_Within this envelope I enclose the list of things I’d be delighted to find when you return from your noble deeds. I shall have to remind you the milk and assure you of severe punishment in case you forget._

_P.S. Bring whipped cream. I have dark intentions. I shall be wearing my onesie._

_P.S.2 Your ass is a gift from the angels. Just so you know._

_Love._

**Author's Note:**

> The Shakespeare letter fragment is from 'As you like it', Act 4.


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